


Return to Sender: Harry J. Potter

by Vukovich



Series: Epitaphs in Autographs [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Infidelity, M/M, Sad Ending, Scent Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-14
Updated: 2021-02-14
Packaged: 2021-03-16 01:07:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,584
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29445288
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vukovich/pseuds/Vukovich
Summary: Part 1.  ReadPart 2next.  This is might hurt.The first time Draco slides into bed, smelling of another man, the only glass left intact at 12 Grimmauld is a pair of spectacles.The sixth time, it's the flash-bang mushroom cloud realization that this isn't thesixthtime by a long shot.The last time, it's 10 PM, and it's dittany, camphor, wormwood, valerian root, and the Healers'  platitudes.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter, Draco Malfoy/Other(s)
Series: Epitaphs in Autographs [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2176113
Comments: 18
Kudos: 79
Collections: My Bloody Valentine 2021





	Return to Sender: Harry J. Potter

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Tontonguetonks ([AO3](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tontonguetonks) and [Tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/view/tontonguetonks)) for a posthumous beta-reading.

The first time it happens, it's 2 AM, and Draco slides into bed reeking of patchouli, sweat, and clove cigarettes. Harry doesn't say anything, just slips out the other side of the bed in search of anything in 12 Grimmauld that'll sing him its agony while he destroys it.

Glass, it turns out, shatters with a crystalline wail that's not unlike heartstring ligaments stretched to slow snapping. A peeling, slow-roll dismemberment. The round, plate-glass mirror over the mantle fights back, a resonant, sternum-rattling glacial calving rip as it splits. The jagged hemispheres leak sparkling splinters onto the mantle from the rift between them.

His shoes crunch over the glittering massacre on his way to the shower.

Draco makes waffles. He makes waffles, and silence, and coffee, and tension, and bacon, and makes everything that's supposed to be easy into a goddamn firewalk.

"Why, Draco?"

"Why not?"

"Because I love you."

"I love you, too."

"Do you love him?"

"Who? Oh. No."

"When did it all start?"

"When did it end? Pass the strawberries."

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The fourth time, it's engine grease, gasoline, and sickly-sweet cherry car air freshener. Harry waits until Draco's breathing slows, watches his back rise and fall until the pattern evens out.

Ceramics break with a distinctly visceral vulnerability, like they've been betrayed, and maybe they have. The kitchen floor is covered in shards of things he didn't know he loved until he shattered them. A glinting edge on Draco's favorite mug cuts his thumb, and he lets it.

Draco makes omelettes and serves them in frying pans. Harry burns his wrists three times.

"Can we talk about it, Draco?"

"If you want."

He doesn't.

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The sixth time, it's 4 AM, sweet wine, cloying pipe tobacco, and the flash-bang mushroom cloud realization that this isn't the _sixth_ time by a long shot. Just the sixth time since Draco moved in.

Draco sighs heavily, but not peacefully. Harry stares at the ceiling while Draco settles in, back turned to Harry, as always, as his breathing slows.

Draco's wand is on his nightstand. Harry wraps it in his shirt, quietly snaps it in half and puts it back. The unicorn hair holds the two ends together in some desperate attempt at unity. Harry puts on his shoes and leaves.

Draco leaves pancakes, scrambled eggs and a note on the table. "At Pansy's."

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Harry wakes, and it's 3 AM, his own soap and cup of tea on his nightstand the only scents wafting through the dead-silent room. The sheets are cold, and the air is stale, and the broken wand on the nightstand is its own crime scene chalk outline.

Harry makes black coffee and drinks it out of a measuring cup off a table smeared with owl shit and a note. "He always comes home, until home isn't home. P.P."

He sets the broken wand on the mantle under the mirror and washes all the bedding.

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The twelfth time, it's 12:30 AM, paint fumes, weed, and Harry's blooming curiosity. He's still awake, sitting up in bed when Draco hesitates in the golden light of the doorway but enters, stripping as he walks.

Harry sets his book on his nightstand, not sure which one of them just walked in on the other. Draco approaches the bed like death row.

"Home early."

Draco lingers next to his own nightstand, pale, perfect, and defeated.

"Boring."

Harry lets his gaze wander as Draco's fingers tap the outsides of his thighs. It's been months since he's dared to look at him in the light, letting bruises and scratch marks stay anonymous in the dark.

"I'm boring."

"You're _home_."

Harry pats the bed next to him and Draco crawls across the tufted expanse, head hung and cock heavy. His hair is soft, but fine splatters of white paint keep Harry from running his fingers through it without sticking.

"Fuck me."

"Yeah."

Draco comes like he always does, an almost imperceptible breeze through quaking aspen leaves, lost under the rasp of Harry's breath. A shudder and sigh drowned out by a thick growl and the slap of flesh. Harry's lips press between Draco's shoulder blades as their breathing slows.

Draco makes toast, and beans, and space while Harry makes tea, and eggs, and leaps of faith.

"I worry about you when you're gone."

"You know I'm safe about it."

"People aren't safe, though."

"You're people."

Draco sips tea out of a new mug. It's too shiny, too perfect, and the plate glass mirror mocks Harry for it all.

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The twenty-eighth time, it's 1:30 AM, blood, beer, terror, and "I think I need to go to St. Mungo's".

Draco makes half-cooked eggs, burnt bacon, and rationalizations. Harry makes strong coffee, weak tea, and half-baked plans.

"I can get the Skele-Gro."

Draco's mug wobbles in his left hand, and he rests it on the brace around his right wrist.

"They'll taint it if they know who it's for."

Harry swallows a bite of raw egg white on blackened bacon.

"I'm getting a tattoo later. I need you to come."

Draco's mug tilts, splashing tea down onto the brace.

"In public?"

Three tattoo artists refuse Harry's request and shove an inked-up kid out into the parlor who's more than happy to take a pouch full of Galleons under the table.

"And you want it charmed, right?"

"Yeah. So everyone but him can see it."

The kid glances nervously between Draco's forearm and Harry's.

"Shit, for what you paid, I'll do two."

"Brilliant."

The skull and snake just sit there in his skin as the kid slathers ointment with a grimace like he's lubing up somebody's grandad's cock.

"I need one of his hairs for the charm."

Harry hands him two blonde strands and glances back at Draco in the waiting area. The corner of the magazine in his hands catches on the wrist brace, and he drops it in a flutter of pages.

"Hey. Your turn."

Draco's tongue skirts his top teeth behind closed lips.

"Scared, Malfoy?"

"You wish."

As Draco takes his shirt off and lays face-down, Harry hands the kid a sketch. A memo, more than anything.

"Huh. Hang on. I got a real one back in the post today. I'll grab it."

"Brilliant."

"Where?"

"Right between his shoulder blades. All black. About playing-card size. Charmed so he can't read it."

Draco huffs indignantly into the table as the kid preps. Harry's thumb traces the design on his forearm, and he wonders if he doesn't already regret it. A long, fluttery sigh flows from Draco as the needle starts moving, and Harry's cock fills at the sound.

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The thirty-second time, it's in the goddamn Prophet. Draco in a bar, Harry in a cafe, split-shots, side-by-side. Front page, full-color. 

**Malfoy, Marks, and Men, Men, Men! What is Potter Playing at?**

Draco makes quiche lorraine, cappuccinos, and a big fucking scene. Harry makes excuses, a mess, and a small pile of pie crust crumbs on the table.

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The thirty-ninth time, it's 3:30 PM on Yule, and it's roast turkey and yams and Charlie Weasley's busted fucking nose under the mistletoe.

"Christ, Harry. Can't blame me for assuming."

Ron looks up from carving the turkey and shrugs with a soft wince.

"Shit, if I'd have known that was your thing, your summer in Romania could have been a lot more-"

It's pumpkin pie and soft, buttery rolls and Charlie's cracked goddamn ribs.

Draco makes hot toddies and biscuits and makes love like summer torrents drench a parched valley till the dam gate slides open or breaks.

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The forty-third time, it's 3:30 AM, and it's leather, iron, good cologne, quiet suspicion, and Harry's piqued interest. Harry's eyes crack open in the darkness as the mattress dips, and he takes a long, savoring inhale.

"Harry. What's on my back?"

Harry yawns and reaches for him as he rolls over. His lips land on the tattoo.

"It's just a reminder."

"To whom?"

"Everyone."

His hand settles on Draco's hip as his eyes flutter shut, lips still against the ink. Long fingers pull his hand down around Draco's hard length, and Harry's hips press forward in reply.

"Interesting night, or very boring night?"

"Interesting. Very."

It's pliancy and demand, and eagerness and want, and gratitude and drowning, and Harry comes like a dragon lands, in bellows and fire.

"Did you come?"

"Ages ago."

Draco makes scones and mimosas and soft, satisfied hums. Harry makes eggs and a crumbly mess.

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The fifty-somethingth time, it's 2 AM, and it's oregano, anise, candle smoke, and excitement. Draco crawls toward him, nude as always, but cheeks flushed pink and eyes shining as he fights to keep his voice at a whisper.

"Have you ever been to Greece?"

"No, have you?"

"No, but I want to." Draco rolls over on his back, neck arched over Harry's thigh, throat exposed. "I saw the most beautiful pictures."

"Let's go, then."

"Really?"

"Why not?" Harry smirks softly, mostly to himself.

Draco dozes off talking about lamb recipes, and Harry buries his face between Draco's shoulder blades and dreams of beaches.

Draco makes alevropita and Harry makes travel bookings.

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The sixtyish-ith time, it's fucking _dawn_ , and it's pine needles, forest floor, woodsmoke, and alarmed arousal. Draco walks like a mud-stained, nude zombie to the bed and clicks his tongue in dazed greeting.

"Morning," Harry says, voice hitching as he stretches. "Did you get mauled by a bear?"

"Two, thank you very much." Draco is a felled tree, falling heedlessly face-first in the to the cushioned sanctuary of the duvet. 

His voice is hoarse when he finally speaks. "Harry. What the fuck is on my back?"

"Mud. A couple bits of leaves."

"Tosser."

"Why?" Worry creases Harry's brow as he looks past the tattoo. Draco's strangely dirty, but not injured. "Good night or bad night?"

Draco rolls over, arm flinging dramatically. "I do not say this to diminish you. But. The _best_ night." He blows out a long breath and gathers himself enough to crawl over to Harry, head on his thigh. "I... learned things," he rasps.

"Oh?" Harry asks, brow quirked down at him. "What kinds of things?"

Draco blinks slowly, gaze on the ceiling more than Harry. "I am a bit of a screamer."

"You are not," Harry says with a huffed laugh. "You could come in your trousers in the middle of the Gringotts lobby, and no one would notice."

"Not so, apparently."

"Show me."

Draco is sprawled, jointless and languid, along Harry's front as he leans against the headboard. Harry's hand over Draco's mouth feels wrong, on some fundamental level, but he does as he's told, because, for the muffled sounds trickling from Draco's nostrils, he would hold his hand in open flame.

His fist glides over Draco's cock, and he tries to ignore his own erection leaving impatient wet imprints on his pants under Draco's arse as he moves. And bloody hell, does he move, and indeed, scream against Harry's hand as he thrusts into Harry's fist. His eyelids flutter shut as the whites show, and Harry watches.

Muffled shouts under his hand trickle into yelping whimpers as he comes, and deep, satisfied growls as he slows. Harry comes in his pants as Draco crescendos, and they slow together. Teeth bite into his index finger, then hold tighter as he tries to take his hand off Draco's mouth.

"You're loud when you're forced to be quiet, hm?"

Harry's fingers trail through the spatter up Draco's abdomen and chest to his shoulder, and graze across Draco's lips.

"Mm hm."

Draco's tongue darts out to lick his come off his lips, and he log-rolls off Harry, settling on his side, facing away. Harry curls up behind him, lips between his shoulder blades.

"They're nicer."

"Who?"

"All of them. When they see it, they're nicer."

"I should send these bears a fruit basket."

"Too tired to know if you're funny or dumb, Harry."

"Serious, I think. Maybe a bottle of Firewhiskey. What's their address?"

"No idea."

"Names?"

"They have a St. Bernard named Bromeliad and live in a cabin."

Harry inhales through his nose, slow, as if he can breath in his own words off Draco's skin. Pine needles, woodsmoke, wet earth, and sex.

"You've never told me about any of them."

"Never thought you wanted to hear it."

"I didn't."

"Do you now?"

"Yeah."

"Bromeliad has his own bedroom with a human-size bed in it."

"Mm hm."

Early morning light splinters in through the bottom of the east windows as Draco rambles about an A-frame in a forest and a Greek banker and an Auror who knits and a grab-ass ginger dragon tamer.

Harry tucks him in as he's trailing off, and goes down to the kitchen.

Harry buys bear claws and fruit salad and an international Portkey. Draco sleeps late and eats pastries and fruit and the timbre of his own release contained by Harry's hand.

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The something-th time, it's just before dinner, and it's sweat, broom polish, spunk, and maddening possession. Draco saunters in through the suite's sliding glass doors from the beach, liquid grace and loose limbs in white linen.

"You smell like a Quidditch gang bang," Harry says as he looks up from his book and pats the bed next to him.

"Accurate," Draco purrs, letting the airy fabric fall to the tile floor. "But they missed a spot."

"They always do."

"Fuck me."

"I always do."

Draco's skin is tacky under his fingers when he rolls him onto his stomach. Not as he spreads him open, though. Not here. Here, he's slick, ready, hot, but empty. Harry's tongue works as his hands pin Draco's hips down, familiar taste of rubber, sweat, and frustration.

Face down, hips up, Draco's fingers wad the sheets in a scrabbling search for traction as Harry pounds into him. A desperate, eager, frantic pace as the mattress-muffled groans wind the tension in his hips into a tight-coiled thing that snaps when Draco's eyelashes flutter.

Draco reserves a table and chooses calamari. Harry reserves a chapel and chooses Draco. The only rings are fried, and the only vows are loose, baffling, breakable, and perfect.

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Eventually, it's early evening, and it's a wet kind of cold that makes his joints hurt, it's forgotten reading glasses, and a lack of the thrill of the chase. Draco sidles up behind Harry as he washes dishes, still light on his feet to an alarming degree.

"Home early."

"Boring."

"I'm boring."

"My favorite thing about you, Potter."

"Second-favorite, I think."

Draco makes tea, makes an exhibitionist show on the couch, and makes light of Harry's gray hair. Harry makes a fruit plate, makes a goddamn mess in his pants, and makes a threat to hex Draco bald.

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The last time, it's 10 PM, and it's dittany, camphor, wormwood, valerian root, and the Healers' platitudes. The empty purple vials on Draco's nightstand are their own crime scene chalk outline.

Harry fits himself behind Draco, dreading hearing his breathing settle this time. His lips find home and wait. Maybe he slept, or maybe he stayed awake, but it doesn't matter.

Just one more breath. One more rise and fall of the skin under his lips. A prayer to no one and nothing.

A whisper of magic slides over his lips as the tattoo's charm dissipates. Harry's eyes squeeze shut as he makes a desperate plea, as a tear trails across his temple, that this vow, the only one he ever made in ink, might hold:

**\------------------**

**Return to Sender:**

** Harry J. Potter **

**\------------------**

**Author's Note:**

> Read [Part 2](https://archiveofourown.org/works/29617797).


End file.
